


sketch of hope

by Softlight



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29385381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Softlight/pseuds/Softlight
Summary: “I know I should’ve asked permission, but-”“Were you drawing me?”
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 28
Kudos: 163





	sketch of hope

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt "Blake feels haggard, and world-weary, but a passing painter asks her to pose for her a few times and the resulting painting is a masterpiece. Blake doesn't understand how Yang sees her as anything but weather-beaten, while Yang doesn't understand Blake's inability to see her own beauty or self-worth," as received from an anon on Tumblr! I've had this one for a while and I've been looking forward to it for ages. I hope you all enjoy!

Blake takes a drink of her tea. It’s over-seeped and bitter, something no amount of milk or honey will fix, but it’s tea, and it’s warm going down. Still, she squeezes more honey into the chipped ceramic mug and stirs it in. Her eyes feel heavy, but she flips open her book once more and begins reading where she left off. It’s something she’s read before but it’s as worn and familiar as her sweater; just what she needs right now.

Another sip of tea, her nose crinkling as she’s hit with the sour and sweet syrupy taste, but she still downs half the cup. She would normally go to her favorite cafe, a ten minute’s walk away from her apartment, but it’s too much effort to exert right now. Everything is too much effort right now, hell, she’s just happy she managed to leave the apartment today. It’s _something_ , it’s an improvement, even if this tea is awful and she wants to crawl back to her bed.

She puts her book down and sighs, rubbing her forehead. It’s a beautiful day. The sky is a crisp blue with fluffy clouds like cotton candy, and the spring wind is sweet with florals. Blake is at an outdoor cafe, and it’s a beautiful day. It’s a beautiful day, and she should be grateful. 

But she’s not, and she’s tired. 

Blake leans back in her chair, picking apart her croissant with her fingers and popping a bite in her mouth. At least their croissants are decent. She takes another bite, directly from the pastry this time, and casually brushes the crumbs off her sweater. Blake scans her surroundings and the few other occupied tables at the cafe. It’s still relatively cold, and not many are apparently wanting to brave the sharp nip of the rickety metal table and chairs.

But there’s a couple speaking in hushed tones and giggling every few minutes, even if their noses and cheeks are pink. There’s a group of boys across the patio playing some kind of game with dice and they shout loudly every once in a while, even with the couple sending them dirty looks. There’s another woman across from her, also sitting alone, but she is scribbling in a notebook. 

She drifts back to her tea and croissant, but the back of her neck prickles, and her ears instinctively stiffen. Blake looks up once more, and she meets eyes of bright lilac. Her cheeks feel hot, but she doesn’t look away, despite herself. The other woman is blushing too, though, and she smiles sheepishly at Blake. “Guess I should’ve known better,” the woman says.

Blake’s brow furrows. “Pardon?” she says, more on instinct than anything else. 

The woman’s face turns a deeper red, and she gestures toward her notebook. “I know I should’ve asked permission, but-”

“Were you drawing me?” 

The woman nods sheepishly. “Sorry. It’s a bad habit. One of my old art teachers always encouraged it, said we got more natural looking sketches that way, but people don’t exactly like it. But, well, I couldn’t help myself. Hard habit to break, and you’re a perfect study.”

“I am?” Blake snorts. “Hardly.”

The woman frowns, her pink mouth curling downward. “Well, I say you are.” The woman hesitates before scooting closer to Blake’s chair. “You’re not upset?”

Blake shrugs. She doesn’t feel much beyond the heat in her cheeks and curling in her stomach, doesn’t feel much at all these days. Her eyes drop down to the notebook before looking back up at the woman. “I feel like there’s a compliment in there. Somewhere.”

The woman smiles, and she looks over her shoulder before getting up and taking the seat across from Blake at her table. Blake raises her brows, but she says nothing as the woman slides her notebook to her. “What do you think?” she asks.

Blake studies the dark lines, the way they curve and dance across the page in sketches and hatches. It’s obviously just a sketch, but the word _just_ demeans the art before her, ignores the simplistic beauty of something in progres. The woman is talented, obviously so, but Blake still frowns. “That’s not what I look like,” she says finally, even though it is, obviously, her. 

“Maybe it’s not how you see you, but it’s how I see you,” the woman says.

Blake scoffs, but her eyes linger over the page before she forces herself to slide the notebook back. “You don’t know me.”

“I’m a good sense of character.” The woman closes the notebook and smiles at her, tucking a long blonde strand of her back behind her ear and underneath a purple hat the same color as her eyes, but even the electric lilac of the wool dulls in comparison to her eyes. “Can I ask a favor?”

“You can ask whatever you want, doesn’t mean I have to answer.”

“Would you consider posing for me?”

Blake blinks. “What?”

The woman nods brightly. “Come to my studio, with proper lighting and stuff like that.”

“Again, _what_?” Her brows knit together, and she’s not sure if she’s amused or concerned. “I don’t know you.” _And you’re not going to want to know me_.

The woman shrugs. “Are you a serial killer?”

“No, but-”

“We can stay here if you’re more comfortable with that,” the woman presses. “You’re just- well, you’re exactly who I’ve been looking for.” Blake’s stomach turns, but the woman quickly adds, “I mean, just, wow, that sounds so creepy, but seriously. You’re a delight to draw.” The woman laughs. “That’s not much better, is it?”

Despite herself, she smiles. “No,” she agrees. “It’s not.” She considers and tilts her head, her fingers tapping against the cool metal of the table. “If you want to, I’ll be here for a bit longer. So do whatever you like.”

The woman’s face breaks out into a bright grin. “Thanks!” She laughs, scratching the back of her neck. “I’m Yang, by the way.” 

“Blake.” Yang extends her hand, and Blake nearly gasps when she sees Yang’s arm. Yang’s smile fades. Blake stumbles for her words, her tongue feeling thick and clumsy. “That’s beautiful,” Blake says finally, taking her hand in her own. The metal is cold in her hands, but smooth. “I take it you designed it?” 

That warm smile returns. “Yeah, I did,” Yang admits, and she rolls her sleeve up to her elbow. The prosthetic is sleek, but there’s a thousand images all painted onto the metal. Sunflowers, roses, and lilacs all creep up and over her fingers to her palms, bright and abundant, before the blooms swirl into gleaming golden scales and, finally, crackling flames. She’s never seen anything like it, and she can’t help but stare. “Painting with my left hand is hell, though.”

“Well, you did an amazing job,” Blake says, forcing herself to wrench her eyes away from the breathing art to meet Yang’s eyes.

“I mean, if I’m gonna be wearing it all the time, it better be, you know?” Yang shrugs, but she opens the notebook once more. Her pencil appears from nowhere, and Yang starts sketching, her eyes on the page. She looks up at Blake and smiles. “You can keep reading, if you’d like.”

And she would’ve, but instead she says, “I thought you wanted me to pose for you.” Yang’s jaw slackens, and Blake smiles to herself. “Tell me what to do, artiste.” 

Yang laughs. “Pick something comfortable for you,” Yang says. “This can be my proper warm up.” 

Blake straightens her shoulders and leans her elbow onto the table before resting her chin on her hand. She’s staring at Yang in this position, she realizes, but Yang just smiles again and resumes sketching. Her pencil flies across the paper, sure and steady but light, and Yang looks up at her, but it’s different. Her eyes are appraising now, still warm, but studying her. Studying her like she’s a piece of art, like she’s something beautiful.

“I thought you said this was your warm up,” Blake says a few minutes later. “This looks pretty intense to me.”

Yang shrugs, still looking down at her paper. “You speak to me,” Yang says simply. Blake’s stomach clenches. “Maybe I’ve found my muse in you.”

“I’ve never believed in muses.”

The corner of Yang’s lip quirks up. She’s so quick to smile. “Well, I do,” Yang says. Yang checks her watch, frowns, and looks up at her, and her eyes are soft. “I gotta go, but if you’re ever around Sixth Street, I work on thirty-eighth. You’ll know it when you see it. Feel free to drop by to see the finished product.”

“Alright.” She doesn’t address the offer, just lets it sit between them as Yang packs up. “Have a nice day, Yang.”

But Yang rips out the first drawing and hands it to her with that bright smile. “Just so you remember how I see you, Blake.” Yang winks, and then she’s gone. Blake swallows hard, her eyes unexpectedly hot, and she stares at the sketch.

When she gets home, she tapes it to the wall next to her bed before burrowing back under the covers and letting oblivion take her.

* * *

Blake tells herself that the bakery on Sixth is why she’s there, that she’s had a craving for their challah bread and the bakery’s bread closer to her apartment isn’t what she’s craving. She tells herself that, but she still takes the long way to Sixth and walks around so she’s on the higher end of stress addresses. The apartments here are nice and made of bricks, colorful and inviting. Perfect for Yang.

But thirty-eight takes the cake. There’s a mural on the bricks, and it’s a collision of paint and color and wonder. Even in the overcast day, Blake’s eyes can’t get enough of it. She instinctively knows Yang did it, and a smile tugs at her lips before she can stop it. 

She bites her lip, but she can’t stop herself from walking up the stairs to the door. Blake knocks, and she hears a voice within call, “One sec!” Her heart skips a beat, and her hands bunch into fists. This was a bad idea. This was a very, very bad idea.

But the door opens, and Yang is there. She’s in a tank top and paint-speckled jeans and her long blonde hair is tied up in a ponytail. Blake weakly waves, and Yang just grins at her. “I’m happy you’re here,” Yang says, holding the door open. “Wanna come in?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” she says, trailing off, but she still steps through the door. “Should I take my shoes off?”

“Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”

Blake looks down to Yang’s bare feet and slips out of her shoes, all too aware of her pastel lemon-patterned socks. But Yang doesn’t even give her or her feet a second glance before ducking deeper into the apartment, and Blake’s stomach clenches. 

This is a bad idea. This is a very, very bad idea.

But she follows Yang deeper into the house, and with every step she has to stop and stare. Art is everywhere, but she can tell it’s not just Yang’s. There’s monochrome paintings and stunning glossy photographs and sketches done in smeared charcoal over every square inch, and Blake wonders what it must be like in Yang’s mind, what it’s like to see beauty everywhere she looks. 

Yang leads her through a small kitchenette and into the real show. There’s canvases everywhere, leaning against the walls and blank and ready to be painted, in all sizes. The easel is already set up with wet paint. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Blake says, biting her lip.

Yang waves her off and tosses her a bottle of water, which Blake manages to catch somehow. “You’re not, trust me,” Yang says. “This can wait.” Yang takes the canvas off the easel and smiles at her. “So, you here to pose or to see what I did with the sketches?”

“Both, I guess.”

Yang laughs and grabs a smaller canvas, carefully handing it over to her. “Take a look.”

It’s of Blake’s hands, the paint thick and chunky but somehow creates an incredibly smooth picture despite the obvious physical texture. Her hands seem delicate but sturdy, like Yang had snapped a photo of her in movement, acting with purpose and surety and certainty. Her hands have been painted with light haloing around them, a soft buttery gold that warms the icy blue background. Like she’s a saint. Like she’s capable of being a blessing, of blessing someone. Like she’s good. 

Her fingers hover over the smooth whirls of paint that seem to arch off the canvas and beg her to touch them, to feel what she imagines is silky soft. But she pulls her hand back, even if she doesn’t dare wrench her gaze away. “Beautiful,” she whispers, her throat thick. Yang even noticed the small scar on her right ring finger from a papercut that somehow left a pale scar and the freckle on the inside of her left index finger. 

“Thank you,” Yang says, and when Blake looks up, Yang is smiling. “But this is just the start.” Yang takes the painting from her hands and sets it back down before gesturing Blake over to a chair by the window. “Here, just sit down here and look up or down, your choice!” 

Blake gives her a quizzical look, but she still sits down. Yang’s hands hover around her but don’t ever touch her, something she appreciates. The stool isn’t the most comfortable, but she quickly settles in a position. “Is this what you’re looking for?” she asks as Yang settles behind her canvas. She’s looking at the feet of the easel, but when she raises her eyes she can make eye contact with Yang. 

“You’re perfect.” 

* * *

Blake comes back the next day. And the next day. And the next day, and the next day, until she’s been by Yang’s every day for two weeks.

“You know, I need to pay you,” Yang says suddenly one afternoon.

“What? Why?”

“I mean, you’re spending hours sitting in the same position. You’re providing a service, the least I can do is pay you for it.” 

Blake shakes her head, her mouth dry. “No,” she says. “Please, don’t.”

“Are you sure?” Yang asks, her brow furrowing. “I mean, like, I’m pretty sure it’s unethical to not compensate you for doing this.”

Blake doesn’t say that she doesn’t have anything else to do, doesn’t say that she enjoys Yang’s quiet and loud company, doesn’t say that this is better than laying in bed and gives her a reason to shower. Instead, she says, “I don’t need the money.” It’s true, she doesn’t. When she sold the publishing house, she knew she would never have to work again, but, until a few months ago, she had still worked as an editor. Coco sometimes still texted her asking if she wanted to read manuscripts, but Blake usually gave her a noncommittal response. “And you buy me lunch, so call it even.”

Yang snorts. “Lunch is the least I can do,” she says, but she’s picked up her paintbrush once more and resumed. “Let me make you dinner one night.” Blake opens her mouth to respond, but Yang keeps going before she can. “I make a mean lasagna, and I always make too much, so you’d be doing me the favor.”

“Are you sure?” Blake asks. She’s barely eaten anything besides pastries and readied meals for months, and the sound of a home-cooked meal makes her stomach rumble. 

“Yeah,” Yang says. “Least I can do.”

“It’s really not,” Blake says. Yang raises a brow, but she keeps painting, so Blake continues. “You’re just nice, Yang. Not everyone is as nice as you.”

“Well, I just want to treat you the way you deserve to be treated.” Yang shrugs. “And maybe a little better than that if I can, but seriously, Blake. I don’t know who you hang out with, but you deserve nice things, and, dare I say, good things?” Yang winks at her. “You’re my muse. I think I’m allowed to give you as much as you give me.”

“I just sit here,” Blake says, but Yang is already shaking her head.

“No, Blake. You do so much more than that.”

* * *

Yang doesn’t show her any of the finished paintings after she sees the hands, but Blake knows she’s made several. She doesn’t mind not knowing, even if it makes her stomach twist. She wants to know what Yang sees, even if she doesn’t understand her perspective. How Yang can see her as anything good.

“So, uh, I have to tell you something,” Yang says one night after dinner, scratching the back of her neck.

Blake freezes up, but she nods. “Shoot.” _She’s sick of you, she doesn’t want you, she’s done with you_.

“Well, um, tomorrow is my mom’s birthday, and I won’t be around until after lunch.”

“Yeah, of course,” Blake says, her shoulders sagging. She’s washing the dishes, which Yang always protests her doing, but she still manages to get in there before Yang can. It’s the least _she_ can do. “Is your family doing anything?”

“Not really. My, well, my mom died a couple years ago.” Blake stills, but Yang keeps talking. “And my sister is with my dad, but I got class in the morning, and I didn’t want to cancel.”

Blake pauses, setting the dish down on the drying rack. “Do you want to do something?” she asks. “Something for her?”

“Well, I usually get dinner at her old favorite restaurant here with my family or some friends, but I was thinking we can meet here and-”

“You should do that. Go out to dinner, I mean. Don’t- don’t feel obligated to hang out with me.”

“Obligated?” Yang repeats. “Blake, I do this because I want to. I want to be around you.” Yang’s voice wavers. “Do you not want to be around me?”

“No, I do, I just-” Blake sighs, rubbing her forehead. “I don’t want to be a burden for you on a day like that. And you should see your friends.”

Yang is quiet for a moment. “Well, maybe I am,” she says carefully.

Blake turns around. “We’re friends?” she asks.

“Well, yeah.” Yang shrugs. “Unless you don’t wanna be friends, I mean.”

“No, I do! I really do, Yang.” She clears her throat and averts her gaze. “How about we go out to dinner? Celebrate her life and her wonderful daughter.”

Yang laughs, but the sound cracks briefly. “I’d like that.”

“Then tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”

* * *

“No painting today?” Blake asks, slipping off her shoes as she enters Yang’s. Yang is wearing a jumpsuit the same color as her eyes, and there’s golden earrings cascading down onto her shoulders. She looks fancy. She looks _good_ , and Blake can’t take her eyes off of her.

“Nope,” Yang says, smiling. “I wanna show you something.”

“Alright?”

Yang leads her to the upstairs with the actual kitchen and living room, spaces she’s practically lived in for the past few months. There’s a laptop open, which Yang silently slides to her. Blake raises her brows, but she reads the article title, and her heart stops.

“It’s not published yet,” Yang says, the words distant. “I wanted to surprise you but show you first.”

_XIAO LONG’S ANGEL_ the title reads, and Blake silently scrolls through the unpublished article. There’s pictures of paintings, and she instantly knows they’re the paintings Yang did of her. 

There’s none of her face. Nothing that could identify her. But there’s more of her hands, reaching and praying and receiving. There’s her silhouette in golden light, and she seems to be breathing and moving. There’s her bare shoulders and back, and there’s sharp golden shards of wings growing from her body. There’s her mouth curled in a smile and soft and shining, pink and rosy. There’s her dark hair cascading down her back as she reaches for something out of frame.

Pieces of her, and not. This isn’t her. She’s too broken to be this beautiful.

“Blake?” Yang asks, and that bright smile fades. 

Blake wrenches her gaze from the laptop and stares down at her hands, her eyes hot. She’s not that, she can never be that. “That’s not me,” she says hoarsely, her voice shaking. “That’s not me, Yang.”

“It’s how I see you,” Yang says, her words a burning balm. “It’s you, Blake.”

Her throat closes up. “I’m not-”

“You are beautiful,” Yang says firmly. “You are beautiful and kind and amazing. And this is how I see you.” Yang hesitates, but she hands Blake a wrapped box. Her stomach turns, but she can’t stop herself from opening it with shaking hands.

A broken sob leaves her mouth. It’s her eyes. 

Blake sets the canvas on the counter and closes her eyes, trying to breathe. “You don’t know me,” she says, and her voice cracks. “I’m not this person you see.”

Yang cups her face and leans down to look her in the eyes. “You are,” she says. “You are.” Her eyes dart to her lips, and Blake’s face flushes. “You are beautiful, and kind, and amazing,” Yang repeats. Her mouth parts. “And you are worthy, Blake.” Yang thumbs away a tear on her face and smiles sadly. “I just want you to see yourself the way I see you.”

“Yang-” She cuts herself off with a shaky breath. Instead of speaking, she leans into Yang’s touch. Her hands are soft but calloused with her work, but, most importantly, they’re Yang’s hands. “I don’t deserve you,” she whispers, but she still reaches back for Yang.

Yang smiles, and there’s tears in her lilac eyes too. “Yes, you do.”

She isn’t sure which one of them leans forward, if one or both of them do, but Yang’s mouth is on hers, and she can’t think. She doesn’t want to think beyond Yang. So Blake keeps her eyes closed and kisses her back, her hands grabbing onto Yang and not letting go.

Blake doesn’t deserve Yang. But Yang thinks she does, and maybe that can be enough. Maybe that will be enough, and Blake can love her. She doesn’t know, and there’s no way to know. But for the first time in months, in almost a year, she feels hope being sketched into her chest. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to send me prompts on Tumblr at Softlighter!


End file.
